Twisted Prayers
by RayShippouUchiha
Summary: or "The five times Dean Winchester sees the results of praying and the one time he thinks he might be able to actually get what he was asking for."  *pre-slash Destiel* *Angst*


AN: This is my first Supernatural fanfic so please go easy on me. I have recently been given the chance to see the show from the very beginning (yes I am ashamed that it has taken me so long) and I immediately fell in love with it. In the beginning I was a completely and total Wincest shipper and no one could tell me other wise and then it happened. Castiel. Ohh Castiel! Needless to say I still enjoy some good Wincest but I am a total Destiel fan-girl! So I suspect that is what you will mainly be able to expect from me in this fandom in the future.

Warning: Angst, Dean's lovely lack of self worth and some light Dean/Castiel pre-slash (mainly of the sweet kisses and words kind) which technically puts them as OOC (Damnit all to hell if I had my way it would be canon! Canon you hear me!)

Disclaimer: If I owned it….well Destiel would be completely cannon and Huggy Bear would be heard a whole lot more often!

Twisted Prayers

Or

The five times Dean Winchester sees the result of praying and the one time he thinks he might be able to actually get what he was asking for.

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><p><strong>Now I lay me down to sleep…<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean is confused, he isn't sure what'd happened, only that Daddy had packed some bags, shoved him in the car with Sammy and then driven forever. All of his questions had been met with silence or harshly barked answers that had brought tears to his eyes.<p>

Now he was alone in the car with his baby brother, alone in the large backseat with the doors locked and the night pressing in on him through the rolled up windows. His only comfort the small flashlight his Daddy had given him and the glow from the watch strapped tightly around his wrist, the one he stared at silently so he would know when he needed to feed Sammy.

Daddy had written the numbers down on the paper he'd taped to the back of the seat and had shown Dean the right way to make the bottles he would need. He'd patted Dean roughly on the head, told him to be a good soldier and watch Sammy, before he disappeared into the night with his hand wrapped tightly around that huge knife of his.

Dean did what he was supposed to, watched his brother and the clock, feed Sammy the bottles until they were gone and even managed to fumble his way through cleaning up his little brother. Still Dean was scared, was terrified of the dark outside the windows, of the wind that ruffled the tree branches overhead and the fact that his Daddy still hadn't come back yet.

Still he'd stayed brave, been a good little soldier even when one day had turned to two and he'd been forced to face his fears and scamper out of the car to use the bathroom even though his Daddy had said he wasn't supposed to leave the backseat.

He'd prayed like his Mommy had taught him, had taken Sammy's small hand between his and closed his eyes to talk to God and the angels.

"Dear angels. Please let Daddy get back soon so we can go home. I'm scared and I miss Mommy. I just wanna go home. Amen." It'd been a simple prayer, a child's prayer, full of innocence and hope. He'd truly believed that the angels would listen to him and he would get to go back home with Sammy and everything would be alright.

Then when his Daddy had returned the next day and they still didn't go home that night or the next or the next Dean had bit back his tears and squared his tiny shoulders. When his Daddy had started referring to the car as home and not the house they had lived in he'd realized his prayers were not going to be answered in the way he had hoped.

'The angels,' he'd comforted himself, 'know what's best. They'll make sure everything works out like Mommy said.'

* * *

><p><strong>I pray thy Lord my soul to keep…<strong>

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><p>Dean's nine now and he's a good little soldier. Not a son, not a brother, but a soldier. No matter what he wishes there isn't room in their lives for him to be any thing else but the soldier John, Sir, had crafted out of blood, sweat, and tears.<p>

He only has two real missions, two real objectives that have been beaten into his head with fists and salt and rifle buts.

Never question Sir (because it was always Sir in his head no matter what he said out loud).

Protect Sammy.

Those are the two things he has been told everyday without fail since the night his mother died, since the day his father had shoved his brother into his arms and told him to run. Since the day he lost his Daddy and gained a Commanding Officer.

It's been years now, five to be exact, and Dean and Sammy have both grown so much. Sammy more than him really because Dean was always there to care for him but no one ever cared for Dean. He made sure Sammy ate, and bathed and said his prayers. There's no one there to do that for Dean, no one there when he goes to bed hungry because the food is running low and Sir hasn't been back in days so Dean feeds Sammy and not himself.

In ten or fifteen years when Sam is so very tall and Dean can only dream of seeing six foot he never says anything. Never tells his brother that if there had been more food, nutrition for the both of them, then maybe he would have been taller. Instead he looks on Sam with pride, almost like a father but never daring to admit that to himself, and is happy that his brother grew to be so big, so strong.

Then one night it all becomes too much to handle, all becomes a weight too heavy for his thin, already slumped shoulders to carry and he leaves. He doesn't go far, just to the motel's lobby to spend some stolen quarters on the video game there, his training is too good, too deep seated to allow anything else, and despite it all he really does love Sammy. He stays for a bit, until the manager kicks him out and he starts his slow walk back to his temporary home.

The air is cold and biting and his jacket is threadbare and worn, Sir had bought Sammy a new one but had said that Dean's was still fine never mind the holes and lost buttons, but he ignores the cold like he'd been taught and stares at the stars instead.

They're beautiful, he has always thought so. They're made even more fascinating by the half faded memories of being held tightly in his mother's arms at night as she told him stories of the angels who watched over him.

"They're in the stars." She'd told him once. "And every time you see a falling star it's really an angel coming down to earth to watch over someone special." She'd smiled then and kissed him softly on the cheek. "Angels are watching over you."

He'd believed her then, believed her because she was his mother, his world, and he was unable to fathom a day when she'd be wrong. He knew the truth now though, had asked Sir a handful of years before if angels were real and had received a harsh no and a barked command to keep moving.

He made sure that Sammy never doubted their existence though, made sure that he held onto every scrap of innocence and childhood that Dean could rip out of himself and sow into his brother. So instead he told Sam that yes angels were real and he sung "Hey Jude" to him at night like their mother used to until he fell asleep.

Still though there were times like now, when Dean forced himself to forget Sir's words, when he allowed himself to believe, if only for a moment, that angels were real and let himself pray. Standing on the stoop outside their room he turned his face up to the stars, closed his eyes, and let the words come.

"I know I'm nothing special. I'm not smart, or strong, and I'm not really good enough at anything to really matter but I hope that you'll listen to me anyways. I know it's selfish but just once I would like someone to take care of me, I'd like Dad to come home and hug me like he used to. I know it's a lot but please, I just want us to be a family, if even only for a day. Amen."

His piece said he'd turned back to the door and walked inside, hoping and praying that his mother was right all along and that angels really did exist.

Those hopes were dashed to pieces only seconds later when he sees the shtriga crouched over his brother, feeding on his soul. Sammy was so pale, so still, and something within Dean had cried out and raged in a way it never had before. He'd raised the shotgun, ready to blow its head off when Sir had burst into the room and taken over.

Later though when he'd watched his father clutch Sammy close as his own hands had worked to stem the flow of blood from his busted lip and nose he'd fully resigned himself to the truth. Even if angels did exist they were not an option for him. He'd prayed, sincerely and whole heartedly and his answer had been clear. Instead of the family he'd wanted, instead of the closeness he'd craved from his father, Sammy had been attacked and Sir had punished Dean thoroughly for his lapse in duty.

Angels weren't for him. He knew that now because what kind of heavenly creature answered a child's prayers for love with backhands and blood.

* * *

><p><strong>And if I should die before I wake…<strong>

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><p>Dean's sixteen now, lying in a hospital bed in some backwoods town in Louisiana and all he can do is berate himself for not being fast enough. Sammy's in an exam room a couple of doors down and Dean knows without a second thought that Sir is right there beside him, clutching his hand and listening to the doctor attentively. It didn't matter that Dean had been subjected to worse than a bump on the head at Sammy's age, Sir wasn't willing to take a chance on his son. <em>Dean's long ago realized that he is less of a son to Sir and more of a commodity, a weapon.<em>

They'd been working a job together; Sammy's first experience with a poltergeist, and Dean's one real responsibility had been to watch his brother.

He'd failed. It seemed like all he ever did was fail.

Sammy had been pressed close to his back, one hand wrapped around his own gun and the other twisted in the material of Dean's leather jacket when it had happened. The poltergeist had been unusually strong, able to manifest its powers on a much higher and dangerous level than either Dean or Sir had expected. As a result Sir had taken a nasty hit to the head from a flying chair and Dean, in a moment of what was now deemed stupidity, had rushed to his aid leaving Sammy cowering in the corner and open to attack.

He'd seen it a second before it happened from his place by Sir's side. Had seen the knife being lifted from the kitchen counter and sent hurling in Sammy's direction. He'd only had enough time to charge, to sling Sammy out of the way and take the knife himself. It had hurt like a son of a bitch when it bit into his side and he'd tasted blood when he'd cried out.

His last thought had been for Sammy.

When he'd come to it had been to find himself bleeding in the backseat of the Impala as Sir drove frantically through the rain to the nearest hospital, Sammy unconscious in the front seat. His awakening groan had brought the older man's attention to him like a spotlight and even through the pain and the blood loss Dean could see the anger in his eyes.

"I gave you simple orders boy! Watch your brother, that's all I asked from you and you couldn't even do that right! You're a soldier Dean! You need to either get with the program or get out!" Sir's voice was harsh and cold and all Dean wanted to do was cry because he was the man's son and he was hurt and bleeding and all Sir could do was tell him he was worthless.

Instead he clenched his teeth and squared his shoulder, ignoring the pain and the blood that rippled down his side and barked a harsh, "Yes Sir!" back at the man. They'd made it to the hospital in record time, Sir carrying Sammy's unconscious body as Dean had pried himself from the backseat, every movement sending a fresh trickle of blood down his already soaked side.

There had been a story about a robbery gone wrong and Dean had swayed harshly as a hand had come up to grip his shoulder lightly, the concerned voice of a nurse asking about the blood trail he was leaving. He'd collapsed then, his last sight the bright white lights on the hospital ceiling before blessed darkness had taken over.

That brought him to were he was now, alone in a silent hospital room, uneasy and practically chaffing at the bit with the urge to run. He knew things were going to get bad, that his latest failure would earn him double training and conditioning. A part of him wanted to blame Sammy, whispered to him that if he didn't always have to protect the snot nosed little brat then things would be easier for him. The rest of him shoved that part down and ground it beneath its boot heel.

None of this was Sammy's fault, only Dean's. He was the oldest, the one with the most training, the one with the responsibility. It was his job to make sure Sammy had the knowledge and the skills he needed to survive, his job to make sure he lived long enough to use them.

Only he was tired, so very tired and he was only sixteen. It took so much effort to get up in the morning, to look into Sammy's face and know that he had to protect him but that he wasn't allowed to do it his way. The knowledge gripped his heart so tightly sometimes that he could barely breathe. He had raised his brother, had feed him and changed him as a baby, had read him bedtime stories and stolen Christmas presents for him. In all of the ways that mattered, in the ways he should not even be considering at his age, Sammy was his son. The only problem was the fact that Dean wasn't Sammy's father.

He was his brother and that was all he would ever be able to be.

Over the years though he had come to realize that it wasn't enough. That most of what he did would never be enough.

Dean had come to realize that he was lacking.

It hadn't been that hard of a pill to swallow, he'd known since he was younger that he wasn't good enough. He'd known when he'd seen the disappointment in Sir's eyes when he hadn't been strong enough, fast enough, or accurate enough during the early days of training. He'd seen it in the way Sir had babied Sammy, had praised him and cradled him. In the way that even now, when Dean was laying in the hospital bed, fresh stitches the only thing keeping him from bleeding out, Sir was down the hall in the exam room with Sammy instead of with him.

He'd known all along. It was a truth he could never escape, not when ever word Sir spoke to him was about protecting Sammy and every word he didn't screamed about what a disappointment Dean really was.

It was hard not to realize how big of a failure you were when the only person you had to look up to in life spent the majority of his time shoving it in your face.

Still though sometimes it was too much to bear. He wanted to leave, wanted to pull the I.V. out of his arm and sneak out the backdoors before anyone could catch him but he knew he wouldn't. Not after the last time, not after Sammy had almost paid the price for his selfishness. He wouldn't be able to bear it if something else happened to Sammy, his baby brother was the only thing that stood between him and the precipice. Sammy was the only thing good in his life.

Instead he closed his eyes, ignoring the tears that streamed from them except to be grateful there was no one else to see them. _There was never anyone else there to see them._ He'd given up on praying nightly years ago, hadn't prayed at all since that night in the motel when he'd almost lost Sammy. Hadn't prayed since his answer had been backhands and blood but he couldn't help himself this time. Couldn't stop the yearning to speak to someone greater than himself, for proof that there was something out there greater than the twisted chaos he saw each day.

"Hey God. It's me again, Dean." A wry smile twisted his lips for a moment. "But I guess you already knew that, you being God and all. I'm sorry I haven't really called lately, but in my defense your receptionist sucks and you never seem to get my messages. Anyways enough dicking around I guess, I just-if there is any way you could find it in your heart to maybe help me out a little bit here, maybe just sprinkle some of that intervention they're always talking about my way I would really appreciate it. I don't have anything to offer really but my gratitude, and believe me I know that's a piss-poor thing to open a trade with, but I would really appreciate it if you would look after Sammy. It's just, life like this don't last long but he doesn't deserve it. If you'd just kind of steer the harsher shit my way and leave him in the clear I would really appreciate it. So yeah, that's all. Amen and all that stuff."

He knew it probably wasn't the best way to go about asking for some help from on high but it was really all he had. Dean didn't talk pretty, he never had, and he figured coming off all righteous and hypocritical to the Big Man himself probably wouldn't win him any points so he went for honest. One of the few times in his life he could actually remember making that particular choice.

He could only hope that this time whatever dick happened to be behind the desk in reception would actually forward his message and that things might just turn out right this time.

He learns, in the years that follow, when he spends more hours in the hospital than either of the other two combined and Sammy and him grow even further apart that he was one stupid son of a bitch to have even bothered to pray.

He really should have learned his lesson when his prayers were answered with backhands and blood but he didn't. Now he has to suffer through them being answered with even more pain and the ever widening gap between him and the one person that keeps him on just this side of sane.

* * *

><p><strong>I pray thy Lord my soul to take…<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean's twenty-two now, twenty-two and going nowhere fast. All he knows is the road and the hunt and he isn't sure he would be able to handle a regular life if one was presented to him all tied up pretty with a bow and shit. He's just sure that hunting is all he really has now and it's how he deals with things in his life. It used to be a job, something he had been forced into and trained for. Now it's become a coping mechanism, a sweet drug that keeps the jagged pieces of himself from flying outwards.<p>

Now it's something that makes him feel just a little bit less worthless, a little bit more there. He knows that's because it's the only thing he's ever really been good at, ever really had any talent for. He used to think that taking care of Sammy was what he was good at. He used to think that he had done an alright job of stitching together his own broken innocence and dreams into something his younger brother _because that's what he is no matter how much his soul cries out son_ could hide beneath.

Apparently he's been wrong about that all along as well because Sammy is eighteen now, is Sam now instead and he wants out. He wants a normal life, wants to be away from the hunting and the things that go bump in the night.

'It's not my war,' Sam says now but all Dean can hear is 'This isn't good enough for me.'

'It's his fault Dean. Dad's driving me crazy and I just want to get away.' It's what Sam pleads with him to understand in the dead of night when Sir is passed out in one of the hotel beds and Dean has decided to sleep in the car again so that Sam will be comfortable.

All Dean hears is, 'He's enough to drive me away but you aren't enough to keep me here. You never have been.'

Dean understands, he really does. Sam has always been too good for their life, too smart and talented to spend the rest of his years in the Impala with his revenge driven father and useless brother to hold him back.

He understands but he wishes he didn't. He wishes he could make Sam understand, if only for a moment, exactly how he felt about the situation. But he can't and even if he could he really wouldn't because that would be selfish and Dean has long ago learned that it's not wise to ask for things for himself.

Still though he wishes he didn't have to feel so torn, so desperately alone even when he has what is technically his family around him.

Sometimes he feels as if everything was spiraling down, that he was the only thing standing between Sir and Sam and the bloodshed that would follow if he simply stepped out of the way.

Sometimes, God help him, sometimes he just wanted to take that step. To put himself on the side lines and watch them go at it. To know that with every chunk they took out of each other it was one less they would take out of him. Instead he made sure he was firmly in the middle, made sure the only blood they drew was his. He made sure that he was the only one nursing wounds at night underneath the stars on the hood of the only home he has now as they slept soundly in whatever motel they had claimed for the night.

It's late one night, and Dean is nursing another busted lip in a long lifetime of injuries because he had seen Sir lunge for Sam when his back was turned so he'd stepped forward and taken the blow instead. It smarted but Dean had experience much worse at the same hands and others for it to be of much concern.

So once again he finds himself underneath the stars with nowhere else to turn but up. He doesn't like it, doesn't want to pray again when he has only ever been slapped down but that small part of him that still clings to the memory of his mother can't help but do it anyways.

He doesn't say it out loud this time, refuses to let the words slip by his lips and what he does say inside his head is short and to the point.

'_God please, please don't let me lose the only family I have left. I don't want to be alone.'_

Dean's never claimed to be smart, never claimed to possess more than a GED and a give 'em hell attitude, he has no illusions about himself. He knows his worth, knows how little it adds up to on the scale of things.

So he isn't really all that surprised when his prayers are answered with an acceptance letter. He's proud of Sam, he really is, because Stanford is a big deal and Dean always knew his little brother would be great. Yet he can't stop the part of him that cries out in denial because he knows that as soon as Sir tells Sam to never come back that he won't.

It's all confirmed the day Sam gets onto that bus and never once looks back.

Dean wonders when he will finally see the light and stop praying because the answers he receives are never good.

* * *

><p><strong>In Jesus Christ's name I pray…<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean doesn't know how old he is any more, not really. He knows that in one way he's only in his mid twenties but down here he knows he's on the down slop towards seventy.<p>

It doesn't really matter though because where he is time is inconsequential except for the unrelenting agony that comes with it. Dean's in hell.

Literally.

He deserves it, he knows he does. He's never been anything more than a piss poor brother and son, never been even remotely talented at anything but being a soldier. Lying comes more naturally to him than the truth does and being anywhere near the realm of emotional always gives him this itch beneath his skin that he can't get rid of.

He's done things, he knows he has, that have condemned him in all fifty states and in the afterlife twice over but he really can't bring himself to care about them any more. He might be in hell but Sam wasn't and that was all that really mattered to him now.

That thought was what had given him the strength to lay on the rack day after month after year as Alistair played merry hob with his insides. That was what had given him the strength to yell Sam's name as the torture bit deep, the sound of it ringing through the air giving him the resolve he needed to hang on.

Until Alistair had begun to cut out his tongue or sow his mouth closed each morning.

He'd held on after that though, had held out for another ten years at least until it had finally gotten to him. Without the company and reminder of his own screams to keep him sane he'd finally cracked, finally gotten off the rack and placed his first fresh soul on it instead.

He'd cried and begged for forgiveness, had even tried to run, thinking about clawing his way out of hell like so many others had. He'd been locked down too tightly for it to work and instead he was forced to watch as Alistair took over his actions and made those souls scream so very loudly.

Finally though he'd stopped running, stopped screaming and begging. Instead he'd taken up the scalpel, and the irons, and he'd learned from Alistair and been a good student. For the first time in his life he almost had a father.

Finally he tortured freely and he found something else he was good at.

Yet at the end of each session, when he was locked back down, meat hooks reattached firmly to his skin to keep him in place he would beg for forgiveness, pleaded for it to all end. Even if there was no one there to listen he still begged.

A part of him distantly realized that he still hadn't learned his lesson about praying.

Then one night, when the sounds of screams rang harshly in his ears and the hooks in his skin were so familiar now he almost missed them during the day, it happened.

A figure stood before him, more of a what really than a who. A column of white light that seemed to shift and take shape as he watched it, the place where its' eyes should have been shining so blue it was almost unreal.

Its' hand reached out to him, or at least he assumed that's what it was, and suddenly the hooks were gone and he was sprawled at its' feet.

In that instance he'd smiled, a hope that he hadn't felt in decades swelling within him because he knew what was happening.

"You've come to end it right? To destroy my soul?" He'd risen to his knees by then and reached out to wrap one blood stained and grimy hand around what he assumed to be the things wrist. With a sort of tug that the being obviously allowed he'd placed its' hand over the spot where his heart would have been, closed his eyes and for the first time in what felt like forever, smiled.

"Do it."

There been a silence and then the hand had shifted, reaching upwards to cover his shoulder instead and Dean briefly felt like he was floating before the pain set in. It was worse in some ways than all of the torture he had endured, worse than what Alistair had managed to put him through and yet he relished it because he knew that this time it was the end.

This being would end him and all of the pain he had caused.

'_I am sorry for this. So very sorry.'_ The voice seemed to whisper in the depths of his mind and even through the pain Dean knew it came from the being currently destroying him.

'_Don't be.'_ Dean had managed to think through the blistering pain. _'It's what I want, what I've always wanted. Thank you.'_

'_No.'_ The creature had whispered back, and Dean could sense a deep sorrow within it. _'This isn't at all what you asked for.'_

Then before he could think anything else, before that statement could even fully register his mind was over taken by such agony that he could no longer think, couldn't even feel it really. Instead he became agony because that was surely all there was and had ever truly been in his world.

It isn't till later, after he's clawed his way through the dirt and out of his own grave, after he's back with Bobby and Sam, and after he's met Nerdy Angel 2.0 a.k.a Castiel and all of his memories of hell have returned that he realizes what happened then.

Castiel had told him that he was the one who gripped him tight and raised him from Perdition and now Dean knows that is the truth. He also understands what Castiel had been apologizing for then. Dean had prayed for an end, had prayed for release and freedom from the cycle of pain and destruction that his life and even his soul had seemed doomed to. He had thought that Castiel had come to grant him that salvation.

The angel had seen that, had realized what Dean had thought was happening and the sorrow he had felt had been great enough to pierce through the agony and make itself known to Dean.

Castiel had not been sent to save him, had not been the answer to his prayers, he had been sent to raise him, to force him back into his mortal coil so that he could be of use.

He'd sent him back to suffering.

Yet another prayer twisted before it was answered.

By now Dean has given up all hope that he will ever learn his lesson.

* * *

><p><strong>Amen.<strong>

* * *

><p>So he's a bit angry at the angel in the beginning, more than a bit if he's honest with himself, and yet he finds that he can't maintain the rage. He can't keep the anger and the bitterness wrapped around him like he always had before, not when it comes to Castiel.<p>

There's just something in the angel's eyes, that too blue gaze he remembered from hell, that makes him incapable of keeping up his routine of harshness. He knows that it only really applies to Castiel, to Cas as he now calls him, since he had absolutely no problem being a dick to that junkless bastard Uriel or even being snarky to Anna.

Not that he's not snarky to Cas, cause he most certainly is, but there's no real heat in it and he can see in the holy tax account's eyes that he knows it as well. Though the only thing he really does try to enforce on the angel is the concept of personal space though he gives that up as well after a remarkably short time.

There's just something about the way he stares at Dean, at the almost awe and devotion in his eyes when they're that close that unsettles the hunter.

Because Dean has never really been looked at like that before, never really had anyone who gazed on him like he was worth something more than the air he breathed. It's an unusual feeling to put it lightly.

So it unsettles him at first, puts him on the defensive because nothing is free and he is waiting for the other holy shoe to drop and find out what Cas wants from him when he stares at him like that.

Then as time passes and they get closer, as he shares drinks and stories and even laughs with the angel things change. Then when that douche-nozzle Zach shows him the future, when he sees what Cas would become in 2014 because he had chosen to follow him things take another drastic swing in an entirely different direction.

Now he has another reason to fight, another reason to stop things from turning out the way dear old Lucy and Mike and the rest of the God-Squad seemed determined they would. There was no way in hell he was going to let Cas turn out like that. There was no way in hell he was going to let the angel who had fallen, who had given up everything for him, turn into some hippie pill popper who could barely stand to be sober but was still willing to die for him.

He'd rather go back to hell.

The breaking point comes when Cas, the now fully human Cas, saves their asses from Pestilence. He half carries, half drags the ex member of the halo battalion into one of Bobby's spare rooms and places him as gently as he can on the old bed. Dean can't stop himself from collapsing beside the silent and rumpled body because he's still so damn exhausted it's ridiculous.

Uncaring that he's probably going to be embarrassed as all hell if Sam catches him Dean stretches his body out on the bed beside Cas's groaning because it feels too damn good. A tinkling sound from the pocket of that oh so familiar tan trench coat has him quirking a brow in curiosity and he can't stop his hands from searching out the sound.

When he pulls back with a bottle of painkillers the breath whooshes from his lungs and something that he doesn't want to admit is a sob catches in his throat.

It's started already and Dean doesn't think he can handle it if he fails Cas as well.

So that's how he finds himself laid out across a bed beside a fallen angel, clutching a bottle of painkillers and sobbing like a little girl.

Real classy.

Then again class had always been Sam's thing not Dean's so he figures he's pretty much right on track.

"Oh God." He whispers it, almost against his own will. "If you're listening to me, if you can find it in you to give a damn at all please don't let this happen. Don't let Cas turn out like that, not because of me. We both know he's a better son than I've ever been and as much as I want him around I want him to be happy, to be as he should. Just please, don't punish him for being the only person to really have ever had faith in me. Please."

"Dean." The voice was rough and gravely, that same sand-paper over stone sound that made Dean's stomach tremble despite all his efforts to quiet it. Embarrassment was the next emotion to over come him because he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Cas had heard his prayer.

It was only logical that Dean would not be spared that.

Slowly he turned his head until his eyes clashed and held with the man, because that was what he was now, beside him. Gulping slightly he mentally squared his shoulders and prepared for the worst.

"Yeah Cas?" His own voice was a gruff whisper.

"You prayed…for me?" Cas's voice is as gravely and serious as always but Dean hears the question in it, can see the almost hope that has blossomed in the ex-angel's eyes.

"Yeah Cas, I did." It's a confession that he knows will change things.

"Why?"

It takes Dean a second before he can fully grasp his own voice and is able to speak again and he figures what the hell, he's already stepped squarely into a chick-flick moment anyways so he might as well go all out.

"Because out of everyone that I have ever met, out of everyone I've ever known, you're the only one who has ever given me such faith and only asked that I be myself in return. You pulled me out of the pit; you fought with me, for me. Hell you fell for me. Nobody deserves my prayers more than you Cas. No one. And if there is even the tiniest chance that I can get you fixed again, that you can go back to the life you had before me, I want you to have it. I want you to have what you want no matter what Cas because you deserve it."

There is a silence again after his little speech and it is all Dean can do to stop from squirming beneath that piercing blue gaze. It feels like Cas is examining his soul, weighing his worth even without his angel mojo and Dean can only hope that he is not found wanting.

"I believe that you have misunderstood my intentions Dean." There is a softening in Cas's eyes that is reflected in his voice and it is all Dean can do not to close his eyes and sink into it. Instead he forces himself to arch an eyebrow which is all the prompting Cas needs to continue.

"When I woke in the hospital fully human my first thought was not for my own status it was for yours. Being human is…disconcerting but my only regret is that I am now virtually useless to the cause." The sadness was back in those eyes and Dean could not stop his next actions.

Jerking upwards and over he wrapped his hands around the ex-angel's shoulders and shook him harshly. "Don't ever say that Cas! Not ever! You're not useless you understand me! I ever hear you talking like that again and I'll feed you your feet!"

"I-I don't understand what you mean by that…" His face and voice were both so adorably confused that Dean couldn't hold onto his anger, and he felt himself deflate like an old balloon. With a heavy sigh he released the shoulders in his grasp and practically threw himself back into his previous place on the bed.

"It's an expression Cas, I-I just don't like to hear you talk about yourself like that alright so don't do it anymore."

"I understand Dean. I find it…displeasing when you speak harshly of yourself as well." Cas was up on his elbow now, almost hovering over Dean's prone form and despite his entire past Dean didn't find it even remotely uncomfortable. Dean smiled slightly up at Cas, those words lighting a warmth in the depth of his belly that he was hard pressed to deny.

"Anyways you were in the middle of saying something before I harassed you." He prompted Cas to continue since he had been under the impression that the point he had been trying to make was important.

"Yes of course. Being human does not concern me nearly as much as no longer being your angel does." The words were soft and Dean felt his breath catch at the emotion behind them.

Dean raised his hand and cupped Castiel's scruffy jaw, his heart thudding heavily when the other male closed his eyes and nuzzled his face into the warmth of Dean's palm. "You're still my angel Cas. No matter what. You've been answering my prayers since the moment we first met."

A pained express crossed Cas's face at that. "I was not able to answer that first prayer Dean. Instead I was forced to bring you back here, back to this. I am sorry that I could not give you what you so desperately wished for."

Dean lent forward then, his lips covering Cas's before he had a moment to second guess himself. Then when the smaller male's lips seemed to instinctively part Dean couldn't help but slip his tongue inside. A ragged moan was ripped from him when the smell and taste of Cas exploded across Dean's senses.

Castiel smelled like home, like leather and grass, like the sun shining through the windows of the Impala and he tasted like peace, like whiskey and dear God pie. It was all Dean could do not to take things further than that, not to force Cas into a position that he likely would not want or know what to do with. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Cas.

So he forced himself to break the kiss, to let Cas go so that he could stare into those too blue eyes, pupils blown wide with shock and what Dean hoped was desire.

"That was a prayer that didn't need to be answered Cas. That was me being too weak to keep going, too weak to face what I needed to do. So thank you for not answering that prayer and for answering all of the rest of them since then. All of the ones that actually mattered." He took a shuddering breath and prepared himself for the worst.

He wasn't prepared for the feel of Cas's lips being pressed against his again, wasn't prepared for Cas to slip his own tongue inside Dean's mouth and explore like his life depended on it. He didn't expect it but he couldn't complain.

"You told me once to never change and while I have not been able to met that desire I can offer you a vow in exchange. No matter what I am now or may become in the future I will always endeavor to be there for you, as I am now. I will never forsake you Dean." Cas's voice had hit a level of tenderness that Dean had never heard before and it made that knot in his stomach that had seemed ever present since his return from hell loosen just a bit.

It wasn't the perfect answer to his prayers and it had the potential of becoming the one thing he didn't want most in the world but he was determined not to let it. Castiel had pledged himself to Dean, now as he had so many times in the past, but Dean had seen the future, had seen what could happen if he let himself go and he refused to give rise to that.

Now that Castiel was here, now that Dean had someone who was so willing to devote himself to him there was no way Dean would let things end like that.

For once he was going to answer his own prayers, him and the not-so-angel on his shoulder.

And Dean couldn't find a reason to be upset about that.

* * *

><p>AN: So this was my first trip into the Supernatural verse like I said earlier and I would really like an honest opinion on the quality of this piece so please review!<p> 


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